The Hero
by playonworlds
Summary: Finnick Odair was, for me, the biggest hero and the most heroic person in the Hunger Games. So it is only right that he has a hero's tale.


I remember many things about my life.

I remember, for example, the colour of the sea beneath the dawn sky. I remember the smell of seaweed, a salty, sandy kind of smell, a smell that is more comforting to me than any other smell in the world. But when I did die, I died surrounded only by the stink of sewers and roses and the metallic stench of my own blood.

I remember the colour of Annie's hair, a deep, lustrous black. A black deeper than ink and softer than silk or velvet. I remember the colour of Annie's eyes. Sea-green and bright as two stars, like my own. I remember the sweetness of her smile and the smoothness of her skin. I remember Annie better than I remember myself. Better than I remember the ocean, or the cool heft of a trident in my palm. All those things made me up, were a part of me, like my arms or my legs or even my heart. The silver sheen of a fish's scales, the pearly sift of sand beneath my feet.

I am Finnick Odair from District Four.

My life was very short, far shorter than I would have liked. I wanted to live until I was a hundred, and even though the idea of death did not scare me, I would have liked to die in bed, surrounded by my family, by Annie. By my friends. Katniss, Peeta, Gale. But instead I died as a rat might die, in a stinking sewer, far from the sea and far from my beloved. But I suppose that it could have been worse. I did not die in vain.

Once, when I was a child, still learning to spot the glitter of a fish weaving between the barnacle-crusted rocks, I slipped and fell, cutting open my knee. The pain was atrocious, made even worse by the roughness of the stone against which I had fallen and the sting of the salt that bit into the injury. I remember crying, making no move to cover over the red velvet blood that welled in hot pulses over my skin.

I thought I knew pain.

How wrong I was.

Pain is not slipping and grazing your knee. Pain is not what you think it is. Pain is more than that. Pain is everything bad you can think of in the world, concentrated into one attacker. One thing that will devour you from the inside out. Pain in my case, is a bloodless, slimy muttation with a mouth full of fangs sent with love from President Snow. Pain in my case is knowing that Annie is far from me. Pain is not noble, as people sometimes think it is.

Pain can be anything so long as it hurts.

I didn't want to die. But I needed to die. Because if I hadn't, Katniss and the others wouldn't have gotten out of there alive. They wouldn't have taken the Capitol. President Snow would have continued to rule. And Annie and her child – my child – would never have been safe.

I prefer to live a short but useful life than a long, empty one.

In the end, it wasn't that bad. I died with a trident in my hand. I died knowing that I had saved more than one person's life. I died fighting, I died as a hero. It wasn't enjoyable, feeling my limbs being ripped to shreds, or having the Holo blow me apart.

But sometimes you have to be the sacrifice that allows others to live better, that allows others to live in peace.

And as I felt my spirit leave my body, as the silver handle of my trident slipped from my palm, I saw my life flicker past, like clouds in a wind-whipped sky.

I remember Mags, her grey hair framing twinkling eyes and a toothless grin. I remember the pink sky of the Quarter Quell arena. I remember pumping Peeta's heart to save his life. I remember waves, washing blue and clean over white-speckled rocks. I remember home. I remember District Four. I remember Annie, as clear as the noonday sun, her face bright and happy, her eyes sea-green, her hair darkest, silkiest black. I remember the first time I kissed her. I remember what it feels like to be loved. The memory blots out the pain as I rise out of my body, as I slowly lose consciousness, as I slowly fade into a dreamless sleep.

A sleep from which I will never awake.

And finally, I remember who I am.

Who I truly am.

I am not Finnick Odair, the fisherman of District Four. I am not Finnick Odair, the victor. Nor am I Finnick Odair, the Capitol heartthrob.

I am Finnick Odair, the Hero.


End file.
